


Everybody and their dogs

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's thoughts of forgiving Sherlock for leaving him behind during the Fall.<br/>Short drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody and their dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-Warning: Wasn't betaed. Also English is not my first language, so every critic is appreciated.
> 
> The few lyric lines are borrowed from the song "Into the wild" by Bona Parte. -> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSOZ9f9hc6U

_lean on me for the ride._  
behind the horizons we will find a sundazzling piece of mind.  
shot the messenger before he can say a word. 

 

They never talked about The Fall. About The Dead Years.  
Sherlock didn't ask for forgiveness. John didn't offer. Since they were not talking much about anything emotional - Sherlock denying any kind of deep sentiment, claiming to be a sociopath, John avoiding any kind of deep sentiment being a grown-up English man with army history - it wasn't very likely that they would ever do.

They shifted back to their old routine eventually. Solving cases, running for their lives, giggling at crime scenes, going for dinner. Mary split up with John, John moved back to 221b. Making tea in the morning, afternoon, evening. Skipping work to help out Sherlock. Old routine, new situation.  
As much as things went as they did before the fall, it was not the same.

Molly pointed it out to John over a cup of coffee, while they were waiting for Sherlock at the lab in St. Barts. 'Naturally', he answered, 'History doesn't repeat itself. People change.'  
'I suppose', she said with a voice of half-hearted agreement. Then, after another coffee sip: 'But you know, maybe you should talk about it. It doesn't seem to fade away by itself.'  
'There's nothing to talk about. We don't fight.'  
'Maybe you should.'  
John starred into the nothingness before him. He knew that common sense would agree with Molly. Every bloody therapist he had ever talked to would agree with Molly. Every sensible person in the world and their dogs would agree with Molly.  
Yet they never talked about The Fall. 

'How many years do you need to forgive him for lying to you?', asked Greg over a pint, 'You were mourning for two years, now you have been angry for nearly a year. Isn't it time to let go? If not for Sherlock's sake, then for yourself?'  
Everybody and their dogs.   
'It is not that simple.' John didn't mean to snort. But he couldn't help it. 'It is not about letting me mourn. I forgave him for that right after his return.'  
'But what is it then?'  
Choosing Moriarty over him.   
The words died in his throat. Reminding of the time when John finally sat in front of a therapist, trying to talk about Sherlock's death. It had been difficult to voice it out. But he had managed eventually, somehow. Voicing out this was impossible. Even to Greg. Even with alcohol. Even after a year. Tears threatened to dwell up and John looked into his pint. Everybody and their dogs knew they should talk about this, but he would like to see them actually do it.  
'Anyway, I'm glad things are as good as they are right now. Everybody being alive and such.' Greg offered to close the topic, maybe noticing that he had pushed John a bit too far this time.   
John thankfully snorted again, happier this time: 'And such.'

The fact, that stopped John from voicing his anger, was that he hated himself for the whole thing, before he hated Sherlock for disappearing, not trusting him, going off alone. He was honestly happy that Sherlock was alive and always would be thankful for every day, that Sherlock walked on the earth. But there was another feeling stinging him, too strong to ignore, too evil to admit.  
The fact, that Sherlock made him go to face Moriarty on the rooftop alone. That Sherlock entered the final part of the game with Moriarty alone. Without John. Without telling John.  
Despite Sherlock being a bossy dick most of the time, John had always considered them as a pair of equal partners. Even if everyone around them obviously thought something else. He always thought that he was the only person in the world, that Sherlock took seriously. John could stand up to Sherlock and win. John could him do things with a glare, make him fetch things, make him eat dinner, make him kill people. Sherlock would ask only John to stick around as much as possible. Ask John to do things nobody in public would dare to imagine, and frankly the public imagined more than appreciated.  
But Sherlock went up to the rooftop alone, sending John away and played the game with Moriarty alone. Reducing John to a figure of chess, that they moved around. After all even Mycroft had a more active part in the game. Even Molly. Who the hell was this John Watson? A numb, passive key figure.  
And then Sherlock went away, running after Moriarty's web, destroying the terror that his opponent built up over years. He didn't ask John to come with him. Not right after The Fall, not a couple of months afterwards, never. Sherlock came back after he finished playing with Moriarty by himself. He must have had a splendid time discovering Moriarty's life work, diving into the artful piece of crime. A better time with a dead Moriarty, then with a living John.  
Facing this truth after Sherlock's return, John had secretly wished that he could go back to mourn his dead friend. The truth of Sherlock losing against Moriarty was easier to cope with than the truth of Sherlock winning against Moriarty, playing his game, using John.  
John hated himself. Living Sherlock was better than dead Sherlock. Definitely. But...

The violin sang melancholic at the window when John entered the living room. Sherlock turned around attempting a smile, but dropped it immediately. They locked gazes.  
John had been rethinking the whole argument with himself again and again on his way home. It must be written all over his face, his body, obvious to Sherlock. He didn't look away.

Sherlock would die and kill for John. But Sherlock choose Moriarty over John, because Sherlock was drawn to Moriarty's world more than to John's world.  
The torn in John's breast arched up. He suddenly wanted to be one with Sherlock, creep into his body. It pained him that they were two separated beings, feeling different urges, wanting different things. That they needed to communicate in order to understand. 

'I agree, that I shouldn't have gone without you. It certainly would have been more fun together.'


End file.
